


Tiny Pockets of Joy

by annchi



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Food Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annchi/pseuds/annchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is this, Mr. Reese?"</p><p>Reese raised an eyebrow. "It's lunch, Mr. Finch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Pockets of Joy

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this story was _comfort food_.
> 
> Spoilers for Season 1 finale.

"What is this, Mr. Reese?"

Reese raised an eyebrow. "It's lunch, Mr. Finch."

"I didn't ask for anything." 

Finch twisted his lips into a slight frown that highlighted the shadows under his eyes. Those shadows had been there for weeks, and damned if Reese knew what he was going to do about them. Finch caught Reese looking and tried to turn his expression of distaste -- for the food? Reese wasn't sure -- into something lighter. 

But something lighter was a lie, and they both knew it.

Reese shrugged. "I was out, so. I thought you might be hungry."

Finch hesitated. His hands hovered over the plastic bag as if he didn't want to commit to opening it.

"Just take a look. If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it." 

Reese spread his hands out in a placating gesture and retreated to the table in the corner where he liked to sit and pretend to read whenever Finch fussed over computer code and tracking data. 

It was good to have Finch back. 

It was also terrible, because he wouldn't tell Reese enough about what had happened. 

The bare facts, those he was candid about: yes, alias Caroline Turing, the hacker who called herself Root, had kidnapped him at gunpoint after she executed Alicia Corwin. Yes, she forced him to drive onto a container ship, then forced his head into a bag. She kept him for a long time, it could have been a week or a month, Finch hadn't been sure, and every few hours Root and one of her lackeys interrogated him about the Machine. But he had been clever and circumspect enough with his answers to keep himself alive and the truth hidden, for the most part. 

Root's plan had been to sell him to the highest bidder once she was satisfied she knew all there was to know about Harold Finch, his capabilities and his assets. But she was too focused and obsessive, she tuned out everything but Finch, and her hired muscle was impatient and greedy. They turned on her when, after two weeks, there was still no sign of the quick payday they'd been promised. That's when Carter and Reese picked up the scent. Turned out Root's container ship never even left the harbor, just moved often enough to avoid scrutiny and keep Finch guessing as to how far they'd moved and in what direction.

That's what almost made him give up hope, Finch told Reese when he was still barely lucid, during those first hours after Reese had unshackled his hands and feet and half carried him to the air conditioned comfort of the car. He had been living in a cargo container for the better part of a month with no sense of time, but he'd been certain they had left the country and any chance of Reese finding him far, far behind.

And he hadn't said it outright, but Reese knew Finch had been starved. He was nothing if not observant, had been on high alert from the time he got Carter's call to the moment when Finch saw him standing in the open door of the container and said his name. It took little effort to understand what had happened there even if Reese tried not to look too closely at the space where Finch had been held. He saw enough to know that Finch had been given water semi-regularly, but little food. Though Reese doubted they left Finch alone for long after those meager meals. He probably hadn't been allowed to retain much of what he ate.

*

Reese watched Finch untie the handles of the plastic bag and remembered the way Finch had touched his face when they were finally clear of the docks -- soft, unsure, still terrified -- as if testing Reese's viability. The reality of him, Finch had said, seemed so remote it was almost a miracle. 

Isolation, disorientation, starvation, interrogation -- a few of the professional hostage taker's greatest hits. Reese wished, sometimes, that Root was still alive so he had something to hunt down and put in its place.

When Finch set aside the napkins and spoons he stared down into the bag, sniffed the air and glanced over at Reese, who raised his eyebrows and pretended to go back to his book. 

Four weeks since Reese and Carter found him. Three and a half with Finch's voice back in his ear, sharing intel about their clients and, sometimes, during a lull, just _sharing_. An observation, sarcastic or kindly meant, about his methods or their client's taste in books or music. A chuckle when Reese said something biting to a slow-witted bad guy. Or just talk. _How was your evening, Mr. Reese, did you sleep well?_

Those little moments. More than fourteen days without, and he had missed them almost more than he missed the job. Now Reese knew they were something to savor and he did -- he replayed them on a loop at the end of each day the same way he went over strategy and tactics for taking down a target or, as was the case more often now, keeping one safe.

Those little moments. 

These days, they only happened over the phone.

*

"It won't bite, Finch. I promise it's good."

Finch hesitated when he finally pulled the top off the container of soup. Then he stirred it slowly, and looked over at Reese and blinked as if trying to see through a layer of fog.

"I know it's good, Mr. Reese," he said, and spooned some into a bowl for himself. 

It was Reese's turn to blink when Finch brought out another bowl. "Won't you join me?"

Reese nodded and set aside his book. 

Food had become an issue between them since Finch's abduction. Finch wouldn't eat much, and almost never in front of Reese. He looked weary, all the time, and hadn't gained back enough of the weight he lost under Root's tender care. And if Reese had pushed meals on him at first, a little too often and too insistently, he had paid for it when Finch went cold and silent and left the main room for an alcove just beyond Reese's line of sight, where he would sit and tinker with incomprehensible bits and pieces of hardware for the hours between numbers.

Reese still didn't know where Finch lived, so he couldn't dig through Finch's cupboards or the contents of his freezer to discover his favorite foods. 

It had taken an hour or so with a confused Fusco to do that.

To his credit, Fusco had only rolled his eyes once. 

"You wanna know everything he ate while I was tailing him?"

"And I want to know if he went to a place more than once, what he did while he was eating, if he was alone, and if he enjoyed it."

"What, the food?"

"That going to be a problem, Lionel?"

Fusco almost grinned but Reese's expression stopped him cold. 

"Yeah, okay. Lemme get my notes."

So they went over everything Fusco had, and Reese compared the detective's notes to what he remembered from afternoons spent trailing behind his boss.

Finch liked pastries and didn't care much for red meat. He liked noodles and chowder and eggs benedict. And eggs over easy and waffles with blueberry compote. And chicken gyros. And a dozen other things besides. There were few constants, food-wise, and very little repetition in terms of venue, but one thing stood out. He always ate alone, and --

"He brought a book everywhere?"

"Yeah, I think." 

Fusco scratched his nose, no doubt activating some dormant part of his brain, Reese thought, and nodded. "Not when he was just picking up tea, but yeah -- or, no, wait." He tapped one of the surveillance photos. "This place, East Sea House. He never read a book there, just ate and stared into space. Plus they seemed to know him because they brought food out before he said anything. I remember that."

Reese had been tempted to shake Fusco until he coughed up Finch's exact order but he swallowed the impulse and offered him a tense grin.

"Thanks, Lionel."

"Wait, how's Mr. Glasses doing anyway? I haven't had a call from him since you guys found him."

"He's better," Reese said, and started to walk away. "I'm sure he'll be touched when I tell him you were concerned, detective."

Fusco had glared. "Hey, don't joke about that. Just tell him I said hi."

*

East Sea House wasn't much. It was a genuine hole-in-the-wall, careworn and grungy with a little too much steam coming from the kitchen. 

Poor ventilation, Reese thought, probably limited access through the back to one of those alleys that wasn't quite an alley, just a foot or two between buildings with little or no space to take out the garbage. Not a place he would want to be cornered in: you would have to go up and over just to find fresh air, let alone escape. 

It made him uneasy to imagine Finch there. The place was a deathtrap.

Well, maybe not. But the girl at the counter certainly looked like she _felt_ trapped. Or maybe that was simple boredom. 

"I have a friend," he told her. "He comes here a lot, his name's Harold?"

She shrugged.

"He's sick and I want to get his favorite, as a surprise, but I don't know what it is and I was hoping --"

The girl had sighed and asked him to describe Finch, so he did, down to his limp, but she only shrugged again.

"Sorry," she said. She offered him a tacky plastic menu. "All our soups are good. If you pick one, he'll like it."

He looked at the menu. There were at least forty items under the soup heading. He might as well close his eyes and point to one, or ask the girl if _she_ had a favorite. Or maybe they just brought Finch the special. Reese glanced up at the board and frowned. Spare ribs. Definitely not. 

Reese set the menu on the counter. "Thanks anyway," he said, and had turned to go.

He was almost through the door when the girl called out to him.

"Sir? Hey, just a second, sir--"

Reese had turned and watched while an old woman in a stained apron and slippers shuffled out from behind the battered formica island that separated the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant and slowly made her way to the counter. She paused at the pass-thru until someone gave her a large styrofoam container. After checking the contents, she paused again to get a lid for it, then gestured and snapped out a few terse syllables that had the girl moving faster than Reese had imagined she could. The girl quickly unearthed a plastic bag, a plastic spoon and napkin set, and what looked like packets of hot sauce. The old woman all but shoved the girl out of the way and assembled the bag and tied it. Then she held it out to Reese.

"Your friend's favorite," she said, and smiled.

Reese returned the smile and almost stuttered when he thanked her.

"What's it called?" he asked after a long moment. "For next time."

"Seven Joys Wonton Soup. It's not on the menu." She winked when he took out his wallet. "On the house. Tell him Georgia said to feel better soon."

Reese had thanked her a second time, then picked up the bag and put a hand underneath, just to be safe, and made his way back to the door carrying it like he would have a baby. When he paused to look back the old woman was still smiling, and maybe he imagined it, but she seemed almost relieved.

*

The soup was good. 

No, more than good: it was amazing. Reese never cared much for wontons, or for soup, really, though when it came down to it he would eat anything that kept him alive and moving. But this was something else. The broth was clear and full of vegetables that were still firm and didn't repulse him, and the deceptively tiny wontons were tender, spicy, and packed with enough prawn meat to make him feel that, had he paid for it, he would have gotten his money's worth.

Not only that, but Finch's bowl was almost empty and the container was still half full. 

"This is great," Reese mumbled through a mouthful. 

Finch snorted.

"I told you, I know." He savored a sip of broth and pointed his spoon at Reese. "The question is, how did you?"

"I have my ways," he said, and thought of Fusco. "Or maybe it's a conspiracy."

Finch raised an eyebrow. "To invade my privacy?"

"To bring you a little joy," Reese said, and toasted Finch with a spoonful of wonton and broth. 

"That was unforgivably corny, Mr. Reese," Finch said, and looked horrified for the short time it took to chew and swallow another mouthful. 

It's still true, Reese thought, and grinned down at his food. 

Across from him, Finch picked up his bowl and drank.


End file.
